


Blue Smile

by MyMisguidedFairytale



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Author's Favorite, Banter, Canon Compliant, F/M, Games Of One-Upsmanship Between These Two Are The Best And They're Even Better When Cheadle Wins, Good Writing, One Shot, Party, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension, Tension, The Last Mission, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 07:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMisguidedFairytale/pseuds/MyMisguidedFairytale
Summary: At a posh benefit event, Pariston tries to recruit Cheadle to his side. He should have accounted for the loyalty of dogs.In the car—which they share for the ride back, and it seems much less spacious with two people instead of just one—she turns towards him and asks why he’s been so quiet.“I didn’t want to ruin the mood with conversation,” is his reply.It’s not in his nature to worry, or to be considerate, which means he’s sulking for a different reason altogether. “Find another way to ruin it, then,” she says, and watches his eyes light up again with that same pleased surprise. “Rat.”





	Blue Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Blue Smile was originally written and published on August 21, 2014 on [tumblr](http://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/95336630587/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-blue-smile).
> 
> Everything below is preserved as it was originally posted:
> 
> **Title** : Blue Smile  
>  **Pairing** : Pariston x Cheadle  
>  **Word Count** : 3465  
>  **Summary** : At a posh benefit event, Pariston tries to recruit Cheadle to his side. He should have accounted for the loyalty of dogs.  
>  **A/N** : Takes place ~3 years pre-chairman election arc. Tie-in to _The Last Mission_. In that regard you could say that this takes place in a separate ‘verse from all my other PariCheadle fics. I hope you enjoy!

_****_

#### _**B l u e S m i l e** _

_  
_

There’s a benefit event taking place that week, at the city’s performing arts center. There’s going to be music, and performances from the national ballet theatre, and the local politicians had ever-so-kindly asked that the Association send “ _one or two people from the highest orders of your organization, to make our donors feel important, to give the event some added prestige_.”

Netero had laughed—not to them, but to Pariston, later, when he inquired who Netero wished to accompany him. “I’m not going,” he said, in that gruff voice of his, picking his teeth between words. “You go, if you’re so interested.”

He doesn’t press, only inclines his head and conceals an amused smile behind one hand, the long fingers curling around his chin as he rests his elbow against the surface of his desk.

–

“It’s only for a few hours,” he tells her, the day before the benefit is supposed to take place. “I know how precious your time is, Cheadle. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have a need.”

She glares at him, swallowing down the words _yeah, right_ , and instead gives him a sour, quiet agreement. “Fine.”

“Dress nicely,” he says. “I’ll send a car to pick you up. And Cheadle?”

She’s already returned to her work, and barely looks back at him. “Yes?”

“It wouldn’t kill you to smile.” He does, as if to demonstrate how it’s done. It has no impact whatsoever on her.

If anything, her mouth is even more downturned.

–

When the car comes Pariston isn’t in it. They’re going to meet him there, the driver says. Strange. Why would he not have accompanied her? What reason would he have to arrive at the event early, and on his own?

The car is one of those modern, sleek ones with a quiet motor and a divider window between the driver and the passengers. The outside is not black, like she expects, but a soft gunmetal gray, and as the car weaves from her apartment through the streets of Swaldani City she tucks her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders to stave off the chill from the incessant air conditioning.

She doesn’t see why Pariston even needed her there. It’s a waste of a perfectly good evening. But, she decides, it’s an opportunity for some free food, and maybe she can do some more networking on behalf of the rural clinics in her care. And if Pariston gets too unbearable, she can always use the headache he’ll give her as an excuse to leave early.

Leaning back in her seat, Cheadle smiles softly to herself. Yes, that’s what she’ll do.

One of the valet attendants opens the door for her when the car pulls up to the city’s performing arts center. She’s directed through the lobby, where men and women in suits and sparkling cocktail dresses mingle in a setting of polished amber-colored wood and bright, gleaming crystals on the sconces and the asymmetrical chandelier poised over an ascending staircase. Deep purple velvet covers the walls and the stairs, and off to the side a few people are dancing to a waltz played by a string quartet.

Her ears swivel forwards. There’s a familiar laugh, almost lost in the noise, coming from the second floor. Cheadle ascends the stairs, half out of some misplaced sense of duty—he _did_ invite her here, after all—and half out of curiosity. She wants to know just what he’s been up to.

She hears another laugh, deeper this time. He’s talking with at least one other person, maybe two. She grips the balustrade a little tighter.

And, if nothing else, observing Pariston always provides some small measure of entertainment. She wonders what story he’ll spin for her that evening.

–

He catches sight of her the moment her head clears the stairs, and his mouth stretches into a wide grin. She’s looking right at him, and the crowd parts for her, encouraged no doubt by the stern expression clouding her features. With her attention so focused on him, he’s confident she won’t think to inquire about his companions until it’s too late for her to do so—he turns his body, obscuring their departure, and turns his attention fully on Cheadle.

She’s wearing black. And a rope of pearls around her lovely neck. What an unexpected image. He decides he rather likes it.

“My dear Cheadle!” He reaches for her hands, but she keeps them resolutely by her sides. Undeterred, Pariston straightens his posture, continuing to smile down at her; it isn’t hard to keep up, especially when her own scowl deepens with every passing second.

Then, her expression clears, and she glances around him, her eyes sweeping the crowd. “You’re here alone?”

She’s careful to keep her voice even, to not reveal even the slightest bit of her suspicions or intent. Good girl. “I was conversing with some old friends.”

“I do not see them now.”

“You look displeased!” He’s gotten her attention again, and revels in it, staging the deepest levels of remorse in his voice and countenance. “I should have introduced you.”

“Perhaps I already know them. Rat.” She recovers quickly. It brings a smile to his face for a completely different reason—she’s always impressed him. He hopes she continues to do so. He’ll certainly give her many opportunities for it.

“Unlikely. Mr. Garcia is fairly new to this country…but he is quite interested in making more connections with the Hunter Association.”

“More?”

“He does count me among his friends, after all,” Pariston says. “I wonder, do you consider me your friend, Cheadle?”

She doesn’t visibly hesitate, but she takes her time answering, tucking the edge of her shawl tighter around one elbow. “You even have to ask? Rat.”

That’s not an answer. He pouts, before looking out over the crowds gathered on the lower floor. There’s more people now than when they first arrived, and there’s still some time to go before the main event begins.

“We should go meet our hosts,” he says. “We’ll get drinks, too, what do you say?”

He holds out his arm, and with some reluctance, Cheadle threads her own arm through his, resting her hand against the crook of his elbow. He beams at her, and leads the way towards the staircase.

–

“You would be a great asset towards Mr. Garcia’s humanitarian efforts.”

Cheadle looks up at him, their leisurely pace down the grand staircase momentarily interrupted. “Does he have any interest in funding hospitals? Rat.”

She blinks, perplexed at the dissonance between Pariston’s words and the tone of his voice—it sounded very much like something that would be of interest to her, but the way Pariston said _humanitarian efforts_ made it sound the very opposite of what the words intended.

“Not that I know of.” He dismisses her easily. “He _is_ , however, interested in purchasing and developing some of the land owned by the Association…a very modest amount, and the locations he desires are all fairly remote. It would be a simple matter of—”

“The Association has a firm policy on that subject, as you know.” And now Cheadle can see what he’s getting at; no matter how smooth or complimentary his voice, he cannot disguise that he wants something from her, and he must want it badly enough to ask _her_ , of all people. Not that she can say he knows her well at all—if he did, she doubts they would even be having this conversation. “The Hunter Association has a large amount of its wealth tied up in the land it owns across the entire world. Nature preserves and sites of cultural value, chiefly. And it’s the very reason that none of it is allowed to be sold that we’re able to own it at all, as an independent, international organization.”

“The policy can be broken on a case-by-case basis by a majority vote of the executive board,” Pariston continues smoothly. “That would be us, the Zodiacs.”

“I would need to review the paperwork,” Cheadle answers. She tugs on his arm, and they continue their slow descent. “But I would be averse to breaking policy, in most cases. The rules are there for a reason. We voted on them, so we should uphold them.”

“Ah, you are a loyal one, aren’t you?” He masks his irritation well, although she can see it in his eyes. “Your sign is the Dog, after all, and they are creatures of loyalty.”

“This surprises you?”

“I should inform you that Mr. Garcia has, for the past year, put a large number of Contract Hunters under his employment. The continuation of his generosity is very much determined by the success of his project, I’m afraid.”

Cheadle cannot tell if he is trying to intimidate her, or if he truly empathizes with his so-called _friend_. She knows that he lied when he agreed to introduce them—in fact, she’s confident that he will do anything to prevent such an outcome, now that she’s not being as cooperative as he had hoped. “Jobs are always available to good Hunters.”

“And the thirty he currently employs will be quite angry to hear you so dismissive over their paychecks. Those on the board do not vote for themselves, Cheadle, but for the good of the Association, and its members.”

And that would certainly be the argument Pariston would use, should the proposal require a lengthy debate. He sought her support, and Cheadle wonders for the first time who else he wants for his allies, and how he would attempt to convince them.

They stop at the base of the stairs, and Cheadle’s ears swivel forwards. The crowd is much louder now that most of the attendees have arrived and everyone is past their first drink. Their path takes them around the edge of the dance floor, towards where the food and drink stations are located, and Pariston imperceptibly tightens his grip on her arm.

Cheadle realizes she’s been caught staring out at what looks like the small group dancing on the circular platform off to the side of the lobby, when in reality she’d been looking _past_ them.

Her hearing _is_ quite good, after all. She’s surprised Pariston hasn’t accounted for that.

Cheadle is fairly certain that the man she heard Pariston speaking to earlier—this Mr. Garcia—was standing against the back wall, in deep conversation with a few others whose voices she does not recognize, and to get closer to him, she would need a good enough reason while in Pariston’s company, or a good way to elude him.

Pariston, meanwhile, is smiling at her.

“You don’t want to dance?”

She looks away. “Not particularly.”

“Or is it that you don’t want to dance with _me?_ ” He looks down at her; the angle gives him the advantage, and the light from the chandeliers above them soften the lines of his face. He looks normal like this, she thinks—to anyone else the position they’re in could almost look intimate, with their arms locked and their heads bent close to hear what the other says. But that is where the illusion ends. There’s a smile on his mouth that doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes.

“I thought I’d spare your feelings,” she finds herself replying. He looks stunned, and a moment later Cheadle bursts into laughter. Then, she tugs on his arm and takes the first step towards the dance floor.

She pauses. “If we have the time, that is.”

The stunned look hasn’t left him yet, and Cheadle feels a small bubble of satisfaction that she was able to put it there. Then, he takes her hand in his and squeezes, tight enough that it would hurt if she wasn’t as strong as she was. He takes the lead, pulling her after him to an open spot on the floor not nearly as close to Garcia’s group as she’d like.

Then Cheadle realizes that she’ll actually have to dance with Pariston, and reluctantly steps closer to him, allowing him to grasp one of her hands in his and put the other around her waist. The string quartet is in the middle of a slow waltz, and Cheadle lets him lead; they drift more than anything else, turning slowly as they complete the steps.

She stares over his shoulder, trying to do her best to tune out the band and concentrate instead on the voices hovering at the edge of the dance floor.

Garcia is speaking with…a city prosecutor? Pariston spins them, and she loses the trail for a minute. They’re speaking about something…money? Her unease grows. Banks! They’re speaking about banks. Whoever the third party is, they’re the loudest, and it’s their voice Cheadle focuses on as Pariston’s hand slides from her waist to her back to pull her a step closer.

“Don’t ignore me,” he says, and while his voice is light there’s an undercurrent of _something_ that raises her alarm.

“I didn’t want to ruin the mood with conversation,” she answers, and is rewarded with an indulgent smile.

“I’m glad.” They rotate, slowly, and Pariston begins to hum along with the string quartet under his breath. 

Garcia is mentioning the name of a bank, but Cheadle can’t hear it over Pariston’s humming. And a date—one of them clearly mentioned something…if only she could hear more of it!

Pariston’s palm is dry, but the hand against her back feels scorching hot. She continues to stare over his left shoulder, past the lines of subtle gold pinstriping on his suit, and then Pariston spins them away and she can no longer look at Garcia and the others.

As the song ends the last note is stretched out to what feels like a small infinity, and Pariston drops his gaze to Cheadle’s ears.

She stills. Her ears, right at his eye level, have been swiveling around as they turn, always locked on to her target. And the way he stares at her now, with just the barest hint of disappointment, fills her with a strange kind of shame. It shouldn’t matter, and as the other couples applaud the musicians Pariston continues to hold their form for a moment too long, finally dropping Cheadle’s hand and stepping away to join the others, the sound of his hands clapping together as dead a sound as a hammer to a nail.

All at once the doors to the main theatre swing open, and a loud voice announces over a microphone that the room is now open for seating.

“Shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, Pariston tucks her hand back against his elbow and leads them away from the dance floor, towards the open doors leading to the amphitheatre.

He is silent for most of the evening, only making the occasional comment about the event’s entertainment programme or making the necessary introductions when their host stops by their seats a few minutes later for a chat.

The city’s premiere ballet company is giving a performance first, but try as she might, Cheadle is too distracted to focus on their dancing. Her mind is instead filled with the memory of her own feet making the steps and the soft music of a slow waltz.

–

In the car—which they share for the ride back, and it seems much less spacious with two people instead of just one—she turns towards him and asks why he’s been so quiet.

“I didn’t want to ruin the mood with conversation,” is his reply.

It’s not in his nature to worry, or to be considerate, which means he’s sulking for a different reason altogether. “Find another way to ruin it, then,” she says, and watches his eyes light up again with that same pleased surprise. “Rat.”

–

The proposal to sell a modest—still over a hundred acres on a remote cliff far to the North, but modest by Association standards—parcel of land to a run of the mill contractor is slipped into the middle of a meeting agenda the following month. Cheadle votes it down; she can tell by the mood of the room that the legislation will pass, and it does, but only by a single vote.

The others have already forgotten about it by the time the meeting ends, she can tell. Saiyuu and Cluck, to her surprise, are some of the biggest proponents of the proposal during the debate. Pariston himself barely has to say a word.

He keeps his distance for the next few days, only interacting with her at her own insistence, when her work for the Association requires either sharing or obtaining information from him.

It is on one such visit, nearly two weeks later, that Cheadle enters his office after having received a summons from one of the office assistants on his behalf—he can’t even send for her _himself_ , and when he does, it’s a quarter to five and she’s practically at the building’s front doors—and the message is so brief that Cheadle, with her coat on and her bags packed, delays her exit to march all the way back up to his office. The doors are open, and she’s certainly making enough noise shuffling around the hallway, but her ears pick up the strangest thing as she approaches his office.

He’s humming something…the same waltz music, she thinks. It exacerbates her already sour mood, and she knocks on the open doorframe, loudly, before entering.

There is a whole row of new books in the bookcase behind his desk, she notes. He’s moved some of the furniture—the chairs and plants—around a bit, too. Instead of dwelling further on how she apparently knows him and his habits well enough to keep track of such a thing, she drops her bag by her feet and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Pariston Hill. You _know_ I have a bus to catch! I have to be in the Kamah district regional clinic this evening!”

“I’m well aware. I merely wanted to wish you a pleasant and safe trip.”

Her teeth grind together as she holds back the vehemence she would very much like to send his way at his continued, _total_ disregard for her plans. A few times a year, Cheadle makes the rounds of the various hospitals in the country that are otherwise understaffed or don’t have technicians adept in the art of healing with _Nen_. She’ll be gone for three weeks—and _he knows this_ , she made sure to post all kinds of notices about her impending absence.

“My life does not revolve around you. Rat.” She thinks she does a rather admirable job of concealing her temper; her voice only flares once.

“It’s a sad thing,” he says, “since mine will be revolving around _yours_ while you’re gone.”

She freezes. “—What?”

“I’ve had to pick up the slack in your schedule,” he says, and that makes her feel strangely guilty for the inconvenience. Then, she straightens, remembering how easily he can make his own problems sound like the fault of someone else—and she’s better than that, she shouldn’t be falling for it quite so easily.

“Your committee meetings, your conference calls, your mail—”

A tiny spark of understanding lights up in Cheadle’s brain. How very convenient for him, to suddenly gain access to her authority and connections like that. Unwittingly, her mouth curves up in a grin. “Don’t you dare open my mail. Rat.”

“How sad. I’ll miss you while you’re gone,” he says. “Do I look sad to you, Cheadle?”

He looks ridiculous, in a three-piece suit of a tartan plaid that clashes horribly with the peach-colored paint on the walls. If anything, it raises her humor.

“You do,” she answers. “But, you know”—and she grins at him, as if to demonstrate how it’s done—“it wouldn’t kill you to smile.”

With that, she grabs her bag, turns on her heel, and leaves, pushing the office doors open even wider than they’d been when she entered.

On her third step down the hallway, she hesitates.

She can hear it, her ears swiveling unconsciously as she walks, with loud footsteps, down the length of the hall.

It’s the same waltz music, hummed so quietly she almost misses it. Then, the humming breaks, and he laughs, something that sounds so dark and ominous that she immediately picks up her pace and doesn’t stop until she’s reached the bus terminal. The weather is not cold at all, but still she shivers.

Three weeks does not seem nearly long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. A _blue smile_ is a smile that is insincere or mocking; literally, a ‘blue smile.’
> 
> 2\. I found _The Last Mission_ so intriguing, and looking at Pariston’s involvement raises so many questions…was his interest only centered around the Hunter-operated prison and the people detained there? Like how he wants to control and exploit the newly hatched Chimera Ants? If he had known that the _Shadow_ members would have nearly succeeded in killing Netero, would he have done anything differently? Or was their antagonism towards Netero why he assisted Garcia with going after them in the first place? Or did he just trust that Netero would find a way to get out of the situation in _TLM?_ Perhaps he was most interested in that secret book? Sometimes I think I’m reading too much into it, but it really did raise a lot of questions for me. If the prison from the beginning of _TLM_ was owned and operated (even in secret) by the Hunter Association, there must be some sort of bureaucracy trail (even a disguised one), and I liked the idea of, at some point, Pariston attempting to individually coerce each of the Zodiac members to his side.
> 
> 3\. Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your comments.


End file.
